


Call it Luck, Call it Fate

by intotheblue



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Danger, Eggsy is a competent badass motherfucker, Harry is a Little Shit, M/M, Merlin is tired of Harry's shit, Soulmarks, Soulmates, idk I'm so bad at tagging, soldier!Eggsy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-18
Updated: 2017-09-18
Packaged: 2018-12-31 08:48:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12128853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intotheblue/pseuds/intotheblue
Summary: Harry Hart is damn good at what he does. He's also a reckless and cocky motherfucker....When Harry Hart meets his soulmate, he knows that his luck has finally run out. Or has it?





	Call it Luck, Call it Fate

Harry Hart is damn good at what he does. He's also a reckless and cocky motherfucker.

Merlin is fairly certain it'll be the death of him.

"No need to be dramatic, dear," Harry says, throwing himself out of a fourth story window and into the inexplicably open topped mattress truck conveniently passing below, "though it warms my heart to know you care."

" _Christ, Harry,_ " Merlin complains in his ear. " _One of these days that luck of yours is going to run out._ "

"No it won't," Harry replies cheerfully.

Merlin curses and tells him how to get to the extraction point.

 

Harry Hart is damn good at what he does. He's also a perfectly sane and reasonable individual, despite what anyone ( _cough, Merlin_ ) says.

Sure he runs headfirst into danger and semi-regularly tosses himself from moving vehicles, but he's hardly going to get himself killed. Seriously injured, maybe, but that's just a hazard of the job.

Merlin's wrong, though. It isn't luck that keeps him alive.

It's fate.

 

Harry Hart is damn good at what he does, because Harry Hart is Marked.

In that respect, he supposes he is lucky. Not everyone has a Mark; in fact, most don't. He'd read somewhere, once, that something like ten percent of the human population is Marked, that only ten percent of people have a perfect match waiting for them somewhere. The thing about Marks, though, is that they're incontrovertible. Those born with words on their skin _will_ one day hear those words.  

Harry still hasn't. He's practically invincible.

 

Harry Hart is damn good at what he does. However, he's absolutely no fucking clue how to disarm the bomb that's steadily counting down in front of him. He's not terribly worried about it.

There's a few ways this might go down. Merlin might just manage to restore their connection and talk him through diffusing it. More likely, Harry thinks, the bomb will simply malfunction. Regardless of how, the result is the same: so long as Harry is close enough to the bomb to ensure his death, should it go off, it won't. No explosion, mission accomplished, and he can go home secure in the knowledge of another job well done.

The bomb doesn't really look much like a bomb. It's contained in a featureless black box, large enough that one might mistake it for some sort of stylishly modern end table. Atop it, completing the look, sits a cell phone, screen displaying the timer.

It's also sitting smack in the middle of an art gallery, filled to the brim with pillars of the art community and rich old men. So Harry pretends like it's art.

A few minutes later, around the same time as the clock gets down to three minutes. Harry becomes aware of eyes on his back. He spins casually, seeking out his observer, just in case he's been made. He makes eye contact with what it, quite possibly, the most intriguingly beautiful young man he's ever seen. He raises a brow in silent question.

"Don't mind me, bruv, just admiring the art," the young man smirks, tipping his drink unmistakably towards Harry.

Harry's brain takes several moments to come back online.

"Shit," he says. "Shit buggering fuck, we're going to die."

He barely registers the young man's expression before he spins back around to face the bomb.

02:37

 _Shit_.

He thinks the young man is speaking, but he isn't sure, so focused is he on the device in front of him. _Fucking hell_. For the first time in his life, Harry Hart is genuinely afraid.

Suddenly, he's aware that the young man is standing in front of him, a hand on his bicep and a concerned look in his eye. "Alright, mate? I know it's a'bit of a shock, but you look like you've seen a ghost."

Barely aware that he's moving, Harry gestures to the box. "This?" he says, "not art."

The young man's brow furrows, glancing between Harry and the timer.

02:05

He looks at the elegant script on his wrist, and suddenly, his expression clears. " _Fuck_ ," he says. He drops to his knees and begins barking orders. "Clear the room, get as many people out of here as possible. I'm going to try to diffuse it."

Harry gapes at him for a bare moment before he forces himself into motion. He strides across the room and breaks the glass that contains the fire alarm, setting off it's high pitched screech. There's a noticeable increase in the volume of conversation, but for the most part, the attendees just look around in confusion, seeing nothing that could've caused the alarm.

"Evacuate, now!" Harry bellows, tone brokering no room for argument. It seems to galvanize the guests, the majority of whom begin moving towards the exits.

Behind him, Harry hears the young man curse. He whirls around and sees that he's pulled a panel off the side of the box and is now elbows deep in colorful wires. He glances at the countdown.

01:06

"What can I do," Harry asks quickly, dropping to his knees beside the young man.

"Nothing," he says shortly through gritted teeth. "Unless you happen to have a wire stripper on you," he adds as an after thought.

01:01

"Here," Harry says, fumbling out his gilded cigarette-case-come-miniature-tool-set.

The young man gives him an unreadable look but wastes no time selecting his tool.

Harry watches as he sucks his lower lip between his teeth in concentration. He expertly cuts six wires, stripping several and twisting them back together in a different order.

00:39

He turns to Harry and gives him a searching look. After a split second's deliberation, he darts in and presses a chaste kiss against Harry's lips.

"Even if we are about to die," he says, "I'm glad I met you."

Harry can't find it in himself to disagree.

00:08

The beautiful young man cuts one more wire.

.

.

.

.

.

The timer flashes zero.

Nothing happens.

"Oh thank _fuck_ ," the young man says, rocking back on his heels.

Harry stares at him, hard pressed not to reveal his astonishment. "That was… how?" he found him.

The young man throws back his head and laughs; it's a wonderful sound. He holds out his hand to Harry. "Gary Unwin, former SAS Demolitions."

"That," Harry replies, grasping the offered palm in his own, "is really fucking lucky."

Eggsy laughs again. "And you, Mr. Bond?"

"Excuse me?"

"Well you sure as shit ain't a civvie, and you don' look much like military neither."

"Very astute, Mr. Unwin," Harry remarks.

"So? Do I get to know my soulmate's name?" Eggsy asks expectantly.

"Harry Hart," he answers. Belatedly, he realizes he's still holding the young man's hand and lets it go.

"Right," he says, "Harry. Call me Eggsy."

"Eggsy," Harry tests the name out in his mouth and finds that he quite likes it. "Did you say _former_ SAS?"

"Yeah, just finished my fifth tour of duty. Not heading back, though."

"Why?" Harry asks, genuinely curious.

"They want to promote me," Eggsy answers, wrinkling his nose in distaste.

Harry laughs. "Not one to sit behind a desk, then?"

"Nah," Eggsy shakes his head, smiling, "rather be diffusing bombs with handsome strangers."

"In that case, I have a job offer that might just interest you."

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you thought!


End file.
